


static palms (melt your vibe).

by katarama



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Closeted Character, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Jack-Centric, M/M, Mentions of Past Overdose, Mutual Pining, NHL Player Jack Zimmermann, Past Drug Use, Polyamory Negotiations, Reunions, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: On his lowest days, Jack still gets caught up in thinking about the things he gave up.Kent is always near the top of the list.





	static palms (melt your vibe).

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarcasticfishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticfishes/gifts).



 

It’s hard for Jack, thinking about Before.  About the way the anxiety ate him whole.  About the weight he carried on his shoulders, the expectations of the media and his team and his fans.  About how isolated he felt.  About how easy it was to get locked up in his head, where there were only minefields, only could’ves and would’ves and should’ves.  About how easy it was to quiet it with a couple pills.  And a couple more pills.  And a couple more.

Even now, with years of therapy under his belt, it’s hard to think about.  It’s partly embarrassment.  Shame.  He’s gotten so much better at putting things into perspective.  He can list the ways in which he’s better for what happened.  The ways he built himself back up.  Learned healthier coping mechanisms.  Learned to open up, to find himself and his happiness in more than just one person.

On his lowest days, Jack still gets caught up in thinking about the things he gave up.

Kent is always near the top of the list.

Jack’s hashed out all the worst parts of him and Kent with his therapist more times than he can count.  Talked about how hard it was, with his best friend being his boyfriend being his fiercest competitor.  Talked about living in each other’s laps, about how incredible it felt to have someone who knew him that well, only to be reminded that Kent didn’t understand the pressure, the stress of being Jack _Zimmermann_.  Talked about the sickening twinge of jealousy in his gut when Kent went number one in the draft.  Talked about refusing to see Kent After because he didn’t want to face Kent, didn’t want to have to admit that Kent was better.  If not a better player, then at least better in that he could cope without landing himself in the fucking ER when he was on the very edges of everything he’d worked so hard for for so many years.  

Talked about lashing out at Kent, and then cutting off contact.  Talked about avoiding his texts, deleting his number.

Talked about seeing him at the EpiKegster, drinking and laughing with Jack’s friends.  Acting like he and Jack could play together again, like they could go back to how _easy_  things were, could go back to the way playing with each other felt intuitive, natural from that very first time out on the ice together.

Like it would be as simple as signing on the dotted line and getting his life back.

Jack guesses it isn’t really surprising.  Kent wasn’t the one who listened to his future crumble to the steady blip of a heartrate monitor.  But, more than that, Kent was always the optimistic one of the two of them.  The one who whispered about coming out, about dating each other publicly.  The one who talked with stars in his eyes about kids being able to look at the number one and number two NHL draft picks and say ‘ _they’re just like me_ ’.

Jack always wanted to believe him.  He let himself dream, sometimes, late at night.  On the nights when he and Kent hung out at Kent’s house during the cool Quebec summers, sitting on tacky, bulky lawn chairs on the back porch, the only place where they could get any privacy.  On the nights when he and Kent shared a hotel bed on roadies.  He let himself look at Kent, his blonde hair messy and ungelled.  His skin pale and warm, his breathing loud, but slow and even.  His drool on the pillow.  Jack would let himself wonder what it would be like to wake up to that every day in the offseason.  To be able to hold his hand or kiss him in public.  To just… not have to hide.  To say he was bisexual and not have to worry about some secret lurking consequences, from the other players or the league or the sponsors or the fans.

“It’s not that easy,” Jack would tell Kent, but Kent didn’t ever give up.

Based on what Kent said at the kegster, it’s a quality that he still seems to have in abundance.

 

* * *

 

 

And then, there’s Bitty.

Jack doesn’t want to say he has a type, per se, because to the average person, the only things that Bitty and Kent share in common are that they’re short and blonde and play hockey.  There’s something familiar about Bitty’s optimism, though.  It’s softer.  Dimmer.  Like it’s taken a few hits.  Kent’s optimism was (is) fierce, aggressive, like it could change everything, like if he just cling to hope hard enough, Jack might too.  But Bitty’s is just as enduring, just as firm in its belief in Jack’s worth and possibility.  

Bitty doesn’t talk about coming out.  Jack is relieved.  He doesn’t want to have to wonder if he’d do it for Bitty where he might not have for Kent.  He doesn’t want to have to prioritize, to rank, because feelings aren’t like hockey stats.  They don’t fit nicely and neatly into Ransom’s Excel.  Jack can’t quantify them, can’t line them up and say, “This one is more.”  

Even now, even years after he decided he needed some space from Kent, he can’t put ink to paper and say that things with Kent are less.  More complex, sure.  More uncertain, definitely.  There’s some distance there that there wasn’t before, back when they were living in each other’s pockets.  But Bitty isn’t the only boy to ever make Jack’s stomach swoop, to make him nervous and hopeful and happy and nervous all over again.  Bitty isn’t the only boy that Jack has puzzled over late at night, tripping over his French as he imagined how he’d tell his parents he was dating someone.  

Things with Bitty are definitely different, though.  Jack is in a better place.  There isn’t as much history, for better or worse.  They move more slowly, which gives Jack the time to question everything a trillion times, but also gives him the assurance that he’s thought through every decision they make.  It’s not less nervewracking, but it does feel less like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the step that’s on just the wrong side of reckless to send him crashing down.  

Bitty is everything his time at Samwell stands for, for him.  Bitty is the detour that caught him by surprise, that brought him in and made him feel a little more human, a little bit closer to something whole.  Bitty is understated and supportive, is responsibility that feels nurturing instead of terrifying.  Bitty bakes him pies he mostly can’t eat and writes him more positive and encouraging post-it notes than Jack has space for on his refrigerator.  

Bitty is comfort in the locker room.  The early morning Beyoncé and the quiet kisses in the bed of a truck, fireworks lighting up the muggy summer sky.

Jack tells Bitty about Kent.  He isn’t sure what convinces him to do it.  Whether it’s a sign of trust or a warning, _this is what happens to boys who love me_ , _this is what happens to boys I love_.  He thinks, most of all, it’s probably just needing someone (other than his therapist) to know.  Trading out one secret for another, one that’s lighter.  

It’s complicated.  Kent isn’t all bad and Jack isn’t all good, and sometimes bringing out the worst in each other was just as easy as bringing out the best.  Jack thinks it’s only fair for Bitty to know that, to realize that Jack isn’t all bad history puns and hockey stats and soft kisses.

Bitty mostly just looks concerned, though.  And thoughtful.  And Jack doesn’t know what that means.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack starts up with the Falconers, and it’s an adjustment.  He loves it, loves being out there on the ice.  But it’s new people and a new place, and it takes some getting used to.  Heading into the pros is a huge media whirlwind.  He keeps the TV off, though questions still sneak into interviews.  Implications that he’s getting his start a few years too late.  Jabs at Samwell and his time there, ‘the lost years’, like he wasn’t playing hockey at all during that time, or something.  

People ask him about Before.  

“I needed some time to improve my mental health before going pro,” is all he says.

The first few games go well, and Jack can feel himself starting to gel with the team.  He plays well with them, and he can feel that it’s only going to get better.  He didn’t shoot for the dollar signs when he picked his team, but he’s happy with his choice, for where he is in his career.  The guys aren’t too bad, either.  He’s a little bit awkward outside of hockey talk, and he takes some chirping for it, but it isn’t too bad.

He’s been avoiding looking ahead at his schedule.  He knows they play each out of conference team twice, and he knows they hit Las Vegas early.  The questions about it start ramping up, and Jack has to guide post-game interviews back to his team, to the game they just played.

Jack doesn’t know how to feel about going to Las Vegas and playing Kent.  He’s nervous that Kent will tear him to pieces, nervous that he _did_  lose the time at Samwell.  He’s nervous he won’t be able to keep up.  He aches, because it’s been years since he was on the ice with Kent.  He isn’t nervous about playing against Kent just because the last time the puck dropped, they were on the same side, though.  He knows there’s enough distance, enough years with different teams, that it won’t be just the same.  He knows that this was something he and Kent always talked about, Before, because they both knew that draft pick one and draft pick two weren’t going to go to the same team.  

The reality of it is different than either of them imagined, but it is what it is.  They’re going to be fucking facing off against each other, in what Jack is 100% certain is a media ploy, intended to get people watching the game.

But when Bitty asks, “How are you doing, sweetheart?” over the phone, Jack doesn’t say any of that.

“I’m doing okay,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack gets two messages from an unknown number the night before the game.

1:12 AM

It’s gonna be good seeing you on the ice tomorrow, Zimms

2:02 AM

I miss you

It isn’t an apology.  No “I’m sorry I came to your college campus unannounced.”  No “I’m sorry I drove a spike in every soft place I could find when you didn’t say yes.”  Jack isn’t surprised.  He isn’t mad, or distraught, or… or ready to believe the things Kent said that night.  Like he was when Kent first said them.  They owe each other a lot of unspoken apologies.  There was a lot Jack said to Kent, the time Kent stopped by Samwell before that, that was just as harsh, that he still wishes he could take back.

Jack recognizes it for what it is, though.  It’s Kent reaching out, though.  Making an effort.  And clearly it’s weighing on his mind just as much as it is Jack’s, for him to be up so late the night before a game.

2:04 AM

Miss you too, Kenny

2:12 AM

Get some sleep

 

* * *

 

 

Jack comes out on top for the face-off, but the Aces win the game.

No one’s really surprised.  The Aces are keeping a winning streak going, and the Falconers always take the first part of the season to warm up.  From a pure numbers standpoint, the Falconers didn’t really stand a chance.

They get it close, at least.  A 4-3 win isn’t too shabby.

Jack thought it wouldn’t be weird, being on the ice with Parse, but he was wrong.  They’d practiced that face-off a thousand times in scrimmages back in the Q, and standing across from Kent at the center of the ice was nothing new.  But Jack is struck by just how much the two of them have changed.  By how much taller Kent is than he used to be, though Jack’s old jokes about Kent being the smallest guy in the league weren’t exactly proven wrong.  His face is more angular, even through the slight distortion of the hockey helmet visor.  

In some ways, though, nothing’s changed at all.  Jack knows Kent’s stance by heart, knows the intensity of Kent’s gaze, knows the way the white of the ice makes Kent’s eyes look brighter than they are.  The cowlick that used to be the bane of Kent’s existence isn’t any less prominent.  Jack used to tease about him borrowing bobby pins, like his mom used to keep on her bathroom sink, to keep it out of his face during games.

The whistle blows and Jack has the puck, and he doesn’t have time to worry about it anymore.

He finds Kent, again and again, throughout the game.  It isn’t like Before, when Jack knew where Kent would be like he knew his own pulse in his chest.  He can’t pass blindly and count on Kent to be there, to be waiting, winking as Jack skates to open ice for the return.  But he still sometimes Knows, sees the impatient twitch in Kent’s grip and knows to get a player on him, to rush him into passing.  Kent has gotten better in the years since Jack played with him, but Jack still knows the habits and quirks and weaknesses Kent can’t break himself of, still knows the way he moves on the ice and the way he passes and the way he checks and

Jack is really, really relieved Kent doesn’t try to check him, not because Jack thinks it would be aggressive or severe or cause concern for injury, but because he doesn’t want to have his focus interrupted by Kent pressed close, throwing his whole body at Jack with only the barrier of padding to keep Jack from thinking about things that decidedly do not belong on the ice.

They lose, and they shake hands.  Jack does press.  He goes back to the locker room with his team and changes out of his gear.  He’s packing up his bag when his phone vibrates in the pocket of his jeans.

“You wanna come over to mine for drinks?”

Jack hesitates, looks around the locker room.  He was planning on going back with the team and crashing early, having a quiet night in.

“Not for drinks,” he texts, sending it quickly.  

There’s silence from Kent’s end as Jack takes his time with the next message, typing and deleting and then retyping, his hand shaking as he presses the send button.

“I can come over, though.”

Jack heads out of the locker room, hypersensitive to any movement of his phone, waiting for another set of vibrations.  He doesn’t have to wait long, though, it turns out.  He heads out of the locker room to find Kent leaning against the wall, looking as Casual as possible as he messes with his phone, his wet hair tucked under a backwards Aces snapback.

“Your hair’s never going to dry that way,” Jack points out, and Kent shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Car’s got a sunroof,” Kent disagrees.  

“Now you’re just showing off.”

Kent laughs, and god Jack missed that sound.  Jack almost wants to hug him close, to pull him in and let Kent bury his face into Jack’s neck.

“Just wait ‘til you see my apartment,” Kent says.

Jack follows him out to the car to see that Kent really was not kidding about the sunroof.  Kent opens it, and the windows, which is a little bit excessive, especially only for as short of a drive as Kent says it is.  But it’s so characteristically Kent, loud pop music blaring from the speakers of his expensive car as the warm, dry wind blows his hair, his eyes reflecting the light from the freeway and the Strip.

It’s a quiet ride back.  Jack doesn’t know what to say, and doesn’t know if he could say it with his heart in his throat.

He checks his phone instead.  He has three texts from Bitty.

He responds, tells Bitty where he’ll be, tells Bitty that he’s safe.

He puts his phone away.

 

* * *

 

 

Kent’s apartment is ridiculous.

The building itself is pretty much exactly what Jack expected, based on Kent’s watch and car, and on all the news stories he couldn’t manage to avoid about Kent in the past few years.  It isn’t modern, but it feels expensive.  If it weren’t for the stack of unread mail on the kitchen counter and the  entire corner of the apartment dedicated to cat toys and a litter box, the apartment would almost feel unlived in.

“Kit’s probably hiding in the tub,” Kent says as he toes his shoes off.  “Always have to check before you turn the water on.”

Jack sets his stuff down, and Kent gives him the quick tour.  Kent’s kitchen would make Bitty envious.  Jack meets Kit Purrson, though the cat mostly ignores him, which is fine with Jack.  Kent’s bedroom is just as messy as Jack remembered from Before, another reassuring reminder that some things haven’t changed.  There aren’t hockey posters on the wall like there used to be, but Kent tells him that’s only because he doesn’t want to get chirped by everyone who sees his room.  

Kent looks at Jack, like he’s expecting Jack to ask about it.   _How many people have been in the room_ , or _how many people have you shared a bed with since me_ , or _do you ever think about me that way still_.  But Jack knows better than to ask Kent questions he doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer to.

“It’s nice,” Jack says.  “You seem settled here.”

“I’ve been here a while now,” Kent says.  “There’s always whispers about them trading me.  I don’t think they’re actually gonna do it, but I haven’t graduated to a house yet.”

“Probably smart,” Jack agrees.  

Kent asks Jack if he wants anything to drink.  Kent pours himself a screwdriver and fills a cup just with orange juice for Jack.  A silence settles in, and Jack gets nervous.  He doesn’t want this to be awkward.  He doesn’t want to give his brain the space to turn this into something scarier than it is.

Kent doesn’t let it go on for long.  Jack wonders if it’s because it’s awkward for him, too, or because he remembers the way Jack operates.

“I wanna show you something,” Kent says.

He leads Jack out onto the porch.  It’s big enough for two worn, familiar lawn chairs and an attempt at a garden box, and Jack freezes for a moment as Kent looks at him.

“I thought we could drink out here,” Kent says, but he waits for Jack to process things before he moves to sit.

“You kept the chairs,” Jack says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.  “I’m surprised they’ve survived this long.”

“I saw this place and knew I had to bring them,” Kent says.  “Parents weren’t too thrilled about it, but they didn’t need ‘em anymore.”

“Your dad hated those things,” Jack says, smiling.  Kent’s dad complained every year about them, put them out on the porch for Quebec’s brief summer and then argued with Kent’s mom about where to put them for the entire late fall, winter, and early spring.  

“You liked them.”

Jack sits in the one that was his, the neon blue one that always showed the dirt.  He’s surprised when it whines, but holds his weight.  Kent sits down in the other, and the stillness of the desert night makes Jack pause.

“Did you really think I’d come out here with you?” Jack asks.

“I hoped you would,” Kent says.  He drinks a bigger sip of his screwdriver than Jack thinks is strictly necessary.  “Thought it was worth a try.  Clearly didn’t work out so well.”

“It surprised me,” Jack admits.  “It was an uncomfortable subject, and I didn’t want to add another choice to what I already had to decide.”

Kent takes another long sip.  “It could’ve been an easy choice,” he says simply.  “You could’ve moved in.  A bunch of the guys don’t like living alone and share rent.  It’d make it easier to be together without drawing attention.”

“I have a boyfriend, Kenny.”

He stares down at his juice, too afraid to meet Kent’s eyes.  He doesn’t want to lie about Bitty, not to Kent.  Not when Kent isn’t someone he has to hide his sexuality from.  Not when he’s proud of Bitty, loves him and loves the security of knowing that he chose Jack.  Not when he knows that being dishonest might take him to dangerous, familiar ground, the feeling of sliding into conversations with Kent about their hypothetical future together, the future where they get to be happy.

Jack wishes for just a moment that there was vodka in his orange juice, too.

“That doesn’t mean anyth-” Kent starts, but Jack cuts him off before he even begins to imply what Jack thinks he’s implying.

“I’m not cheating on Bitty,” he says firmly, looking Kent in the eyes to drive the point home.  

“I didn’t mean _that_ ,” Kent says.  The tension in Jack’s shoulders eases, and he takes another breath.  He didn’t realize how tight his jaw had become until he actively relaxes it.  “Lots of time on the road.  Couples do the open relationship thing.”

“I don’t know.”  It isn’t something that Jack has thought about all that much, because his dad always did things the traditional way.  He knows there are young guys on the team that do have arrangements worked out with their girlfriends, but Jack doesn’t know how Bitty would feel about it.  He doesn’t know if it’s even fair to Bitty to bring it up, because it’s hard enough on Bitty having Jack away so much, and the idea of him spending some of that time with _Kent_ ….

“Just think about it,” Kent says.  

Jack can see the amount of effort it’s taking Kent to be chill about this, to not be emphatic about the _possibilities_ , about what they could be to each other.  To not get indignant when he was fed the same line he was back in the Haus, in the privacy of Jack’s room.

“Yeah,” Jack says.  “Okay.”

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to think about much else.

 

* * *

 

 

Kent offers to let Jack stay the night, but Jack knows if he doesn’t get back to the rest of the team, he’s going to get chirps from some of the guys and concerned looks from some others.  He catches an uber back to the hotel to see that it ultimately doesn’t matter; his roommate went out and isn’t back in yet.

Jack thought the entire way back about Before.  He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about kissing Kent, about Kent’s regular jokes (but not really jokes, if Jack had said yes) about them showering together in the locker room in the post-game rush of endorphins, when everyone else had left.  Kent was woven into his hockey career from his very first practice in a _real_  league, was with Jack when he started learning how to take a hit, was with Jack when he was first diagnosed with anxiety.  

And he can’t stop thinking about that goddamn porch.  About summer sleepovers at Kent’s, days spent out on the porch with Kent’s old tape player and music Jack only knew because Kent played it so much.  

About going over to Kent’s after they’d won the Memorial Cup on their home turf and seeing the chairs still out, grabbing his hoodie and dragging Kent outside to sit together, the early April weather cool but not cold.  It was day two of the thirty-four days between winning the Memorial Cup and the NHL Entry Draft in Montreal.  The rush of everything good still hadn’t worn off and the crippling anxiety hadn’t crushed him yet, and, for the briefest moment, he let himself _hope_.

They’d kissed until their lips were sore, and his mother gave him a knowing look when he got back home, but he felt light and happy and untouchable.

He was considering coming out right after the draft.

Jack pulls out his computer and Skypes Bitty.  Bitty’s outraged about their loss, and then Bitty’s talking about the Haus and kegster drama and Dex and Nursey, and Jack is breathing easier.  Hearing about Bitty’s day, about familiar people and a familiar place, is easier than thinking about navigating open relationships and jealousy and kissing guys in the NHL and being long-distance with two boys at once.

“How was Parse’s?” Bitty finally asks.  His tone is softer around Kent’s name than it used to be.  Some time and some talking and some sitting on things smoothed out the “bless his heart”s that Jack, as a Canadian, realized were glossed-over signs of passive-aggression.  

“Confusing,” Jack admits.  He feels like he should start from the beginning, should tell the whole story from getting in the car with Kent.  Bitty would probably laugh, and be proud that Jack recognized Single Ladies.  Maybe Jack should start from the even earlier beginnings, quiet talks on bus rides and kisses on Kent’s back porch.  He can’t hold what happened inside any longer, though, without it starting to eat him up.  “We talked about the EpiKegster.  He hoped we’d be together.  I told him we were dating.  He asked about open relationships.  I think he still loves me.”

To his credit, Bitty processes it more quickly than Jack probably processed it himself.  He doesn’t look entirely _happy_ , but he also… doesn’t really look surprised.  “Are you in the hotel room now, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.  We talked a little after and I called an uber.  I planned to have an early night, anyway, and I couldn’t really spend the night at his.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says.  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.  The game was weird, and seeing him and talking reminded me of some stuff I… haven’t thought about in a while.  It’s been a long day.”

“Do you need to talk to your therapist, Jack?” Bitty asks.  If he were here, Jack would kiss him, because it’s the biggest relief having someone who gets it.  Who knows that the stuff from Before is messy.  Who knows that sometimes things are hard, and who doesn’t judge him for occasionally needing to talk complicated feelings through with his therapist before he can break them down and entirely process what’s going on in his head.

“I think I’m okay for tonight,” Jack says.  “I… you’re kind of quiet.  Are you upset?”

“No, honey,” Bitty reassures him.  “I’m just tired, too.  It’s three hours later here.  We should probably talk about how you feel when we’ve both had a good night’s sleep.”

“I miss you,” Jack says.  He wishes he weren’t stuck in a hotel room.  He wishes he could be cuddled up in bed with Bitty, Bitty’s hands playing with his hair.  “I’ll be home soon.”

“I love you,” Bitty says, and he blows Jack a kiss when Jack tells him he loves him too.  

Jack hangs up the call, brushes his teeth, and strips down to his underwear.

He sleeps right through Tater coming back in for the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack buys Bitty train tickets to come see him when he gets back to Providence.  He gets a few days of break, and it works out (for once) with Bitty’s schedule, so Bitty comes up to visit.  Bitty and Jack cook together and watch Netflix together and go for a run together, and they sneak in as much time for kissing and cuddling as possible.

“Do you love him?” Bitty asks Jack the second day over breakfast, and Jack nearly chokes on his milk.  Jack quiets the coughing and then takes a moment to think.

“You can be honest with me, honey,” Bitty says gently, like he already knows, like maybe he knew all along.

“I think so,” Jack admits.  

Bitty seems even less surprised.  He tells Jack that he isn’t upset, and he asks what Kent said about open relationships, and he actually doesn’t seem to get upset with Jack when he answers.  Bitty isn’t ready to sign off on anything, and Jack isn’t so sure it’d be a good idea, even if he did.  They talk about Jack starting to get to know Kent again.  They’re both different than they were, and Jack doesn’t want to plunge in face-first and take this kind of risk without being sure it’s right.

“Bitty wants to meet you again,” Jack sends Kent that night, while Bitty’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth.  “As the boyfriend, this time.”

“is he gonna do the open relationship thing??”

“No idea,” Jack sends.

It’s not entirely true.  He does have an inkling.  Bitty seemed subdued when they talked about it, and Jack wasn’t sure at the time whether it was about the idea as a whole or about it being with Parse.  Bitty is cautious, understandably.  Jack is, too.

But throughout everything, Jack reiterated that Bitty didn’t have to say yes to anything he wasn’t comfortable with.  And Bitty reassured him he’d say if it was an easy no, if it made him uncomfortable.  

So they’re left somewhere in the middle, and Jack’s okay with being there for a while.  Jack is okay with going nowhere fast.  He did fast with Kent once, when he was young and reckless and in love.  He can’t afford to lose everything, this time, and if that means relearning each other, catching each other through texts and brief visits passing through cities, Jack’s okay with that.

It isn’t really a “no idea”.  It’s an “I want to meet Kent, and I want the three of us to talk to each other about this”.  It’s an “I don’t want Jack falling to pieces again, and I don’t know you well enough to trust you with that yet”.  

It’s a solid maybe from Bitty.

And even though Jack sat on Kent’s back porch and wanted more than anything to kiss him long and deep, like he used to before, he thinks that maybe is a good place to be, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](https://polyamorousparson.tumblr.com/).


End file.
